


as if hope and heart could meet

by seventhstar



Series: a covenant with a bright blazing star [27]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, Getting Ready For The Ball, Historical Dress, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Regency Romance, Thirsty Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 20:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: Viktor is dressed when Yuuri dares to emerge from the relative safety of his dressing room.And—oh. He is positively glorious.[part of an ongoing series of fics, telling the story of poor and scandalous trademan's son viktor nikiforov's marriage of convenience to the reclusive lord katsuki]





	as if hope and heart could meet

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday was the 1 year anniversary of this series so here, have this good good viktor in a dress content

The morning of the ball, a package is delivered to Yu-topia, marked with the name and address of an expensive and exclusive London tailor that Yuuri has never dared to patronize. The box is left on Yuuri’s bed like the answer to a prayer; he emerges from his dressing room dusty and terrified that nothing he owns will do, and there the box is, stocked with shirt and coat and breeches, crisp and new. Yuuri tries them on and discovers they are cut rather closer than Yuuri’s everyday clothing is.

_Viktor must have bought them,_ Yuuri thinks. He hangs them up for pressing.

There is no chance to thank him, for Viktor is gone most of the day. Other than his note with Yuuri’s breakfast tray (wrapped around a bouquet of dandelions), Yuuri neither hears nor sees him. He is out in the fields collecting flowers for the ball; shut up in an upstairs room doing some magic that cannot be interrupted; supervising the final touches on the ballroom; then he retreats to their renovated bath directly after lunch for his toilette.

Meanwhile, Yuuri tries and fails to review the draft of the divorce settlement his solicitor has sent him, and spends most of the day practicing his dance steps with a scarecrow he’s charmed. Finally it’s too late to avoid having to dress, so Yuuri dares to venture into the bedchambers.

Viktor has emerged from the bath, and is wrapped in a robe, seated before the fire with an iron rod in hand. He curling his wet hair around it; his finger dance over the silver strands, sparks flying.

“Are you curling your hair?”

“Yes.” Viktor prods at his forehead. “Did they deliver your suit?”

“They did, thank you.”

“I bought it to match mine.”

Yuuri has to stare at the nearest wall to compose himself. This will be his and Viktor’s first appearance at a truly public event. Everyone of note in the neighborhood has been invited, even all the people Yuuri dislikes. God only knows what they will think of the two of them. After the disastrous house party, Yuuri can only hope the rumors are less salacious than the truth.

Still. Viktor has said he likes to dance, and tonight, dance he will. Politeness alone will guarantee him partners.

“I had better go and wash,” Yuuri mutters.

“Do you need help?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to say that yes, he does need help, and perhaps Viktor should come into the bath with him and run his hands over Yuuri’s body, and then remembers that time is limited and Yuuri will certainly need some hours to look worthy of a ball. He shakes his head, unable to speak, and retreats.

The bath is marvelous—the water steaming, the tubs wide and deep, the expensive soap fragrant—and Yuuri spends too long there, soaking instead of scrubbing. Finally he dries himself off. A robe has been hung up for him; he dons it before wiping the droplets off his spectacles and pushing the steam out of the bathroom through the open window.

“Ah, there you are. Come lace me up.”

Viktor’s hair is done, in masses of ringlets that fall over his bare neck like a waterfall. He’s shed the robe in favor of a chemise, and is arranging his stays in front of the mirror.

“Is this the one I ruined?” Yuuri asks as he steps up behind Viktor. Viktor has replaced the ribbon Yuuri used to repair the stays before with proper laces. He winds them around his hands, uncertain. “Should I get a maid?”

“A maid? Tch. No, just pull. Harder.” Viktor braces himself against the sides of the full length mirror as Yuuri tugs on the laces, gently at first, and then with more force. “Harder, Yuuri, please.”

“How will you eat?” Yuuri asks as he cinches in Viktor’s waist until it looks entirely too small. He has to hold the laces taut with magic while he ties them. “How will you breathe? Do you usually do this?”

“I do it by magic,” Viktor replies. “Though not always to this extent. Sometimes it’s better for clothing to be easy to remove, you know.”

_“Viktor.”_

“Go and dress. I pressed your suit.”

Yuuri brushes his mouth over the back of Viktor’s neck before he goes. His clothes have been pressed; he puts them on layer by layer, staring at himself in the shaving mirror for any flaw. He half-expects the clothes to bear the telltale marks of one of Viktor’s illusions, but there’s no sign of any magic other than the ironing. There is a jar of pomade left by the basin Yuuri uses to shave; he combs it in carefully before cleaning his spectacles one final time.

“Yuuri?”

“A moment!”

He unties and reties his cravat before starching it place with a spell that his father taught him, years ago, after extracting a solemn promise to never reveal its secret.

“My friends think that I have a very talented valet,” Toshiya had told him. “I dress in five minutes every morning and half of those minutes I spend trying to find my gloves, but no one needs to know that.”

His parents would have liked Viktor, Yuuri thinks wistfully. They would have liked his ideas for the ball, and his intuitive grasp of spell networks, and the way he made Yuuri’s heart turn over in his chest.

Viktor is dressed when Yuuri dares to emerge from the relative safety of his dressing room.

And—oh. He is positively glorious. Yuuri is too overcome to even speak for a moment. Viktor’s gown is pale pink, the neckline drawn to a point and filled in with delicate lace. Real crystals have been spelled and fixed onto the fabric as embellishment; the beads are the glass ones Viktor uses as foci, tiny points of lightning caught inside each one. The rest of Viktor’s foci is wound around his neck, then drawn down his side to loop about his waist.

The only misstep is the crown of flowers perched on Viktor’s head—the roses are a deep blue, and the construction is less than perfect, with twigs sticking out—and Yuuri has seen Viktor turn scrap ribbon and twine into elaborate headpieces, so he cannot think Viktor would wear such a thing on accident.

“Good evening,” he says faintly. He can see the back of Viktor’s neck in the mirror behind him; the strip of skin between his gown and the collar of beads is flushed. “I—you look very—good evening.”

Viktor looks Yuuri over; it takes much longer than Yuuri would expect. His eyes linger. Yuuri is glad beyond measure he has been eating fewer cakes at tea.

“You look very dashing, Yuuri.”

“Thank you.” Yuuri swallows. “I like your crown.”

“This?” Viktor touches it with a gloved hand. He smiles fondly. “It was a gift. From a loved one.”

“From a—”

His words are like ice water on a cold day. Yuuri opens his mouth, closes it, terrified that something bitter and foolish will slip from his lips. _From a loved one,_ he thinks, and wonders who they are, this fortunate person to have all the affection from Viktor Yuuri covets. This is not the first time Viktor has alluded to his lover. But Yuuri’s heart betrays him, always, and he forgets.

He looks down at his own hands.

No doubt, this is not just the first event he and Viktor will attend together. It is also the last. And Yuuri will not spoil it for Viktor with his unrequited longing.

He forces himself to smile.

“Yuuri?”

“We had better go downstairs,” Yuuri says. He proffers his arm, and after a moment, Viktor takes it.

Down in the receiving room, garlands have been hung and the lightning lamps have all been polished. The smell of white soup is in the air. Yuuri fancies he can hear the rattle of approaching carriages as the county descends on them. Beside him, Viktor looks perfectly calm. Only the viselike grip he has on Yuuri’s forearm reveals his composure to be little more than a polite fiction.

He covers Viktor’s hand with his own.

“You can always feign a swoon if it is too awful,” he whispers.

“I’ve never swooned a day in my life,” Viktor whispers back.

“I said _feign_ a swoon. Please do not actually faint, Viktor, I cannot host this ball alone. If you intend to escape have the decency to take me with you.”

“You have my word if I swoon it will be directly into your arms.”

He watches the light fall across the curve of Viktor’s jaw, over the sheen of his gown, over the delicate silver of his lashes. He makes himself a promise after tonight: he’ll withdraw all his hopes. He’ll be Viktor’s friend and nothing more.

And tonight…

“Viktor.”

“Yes?”

“Tonight,” Yuuri squeezes his hand, “don’t dance with anyone but me.”

“Dearest,” Viktor says, and in the hall Yuuri hears the chatter of their first guest arriving, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this incredible art [hana-tox](https://twitter.com/hana_tox/status/995529633540882432?s=09) did of this fic!


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